Sometimes it is hard for me to write here.
I read so many of your blogs, and I love every moment of it. I love the glimpses I get into your lives, through your pictures and your words. I see these little details of your homes and your studios, the moments that you are proud of, want to photograph, want to share. And I see your meticulous work, your weavings and jewelry and knitting and printing and sewing and dying and quilting and painting and writing. I love the inspiration that you give me.
And it would be a lie to say that I don't fall prey to jealousy. Your work is so incredible. Your jobs are either non-existent, or you love them, or you are a full-time self-employed artist(!). Your lives are perfect! I want them for my own!
But of course I know better. I know you struggle (some of you write about it) and I know you purposefully avoid taking pictures of your piles of laundry and dirty dishes - as do I. And of course I know you choose to write only about particular things, too. But of course your selection of what you put forth is so much of what makes me read your blogs, every day, over and over. Because you inspire me so. Not because I truly think your lives are "perfect" or because I don't know that there is more than meets the eye, but because you see and make beauty around you and you share it. And it keeps me working, hoping, thinking, planning. Blogging.
But, it is hard for me to write here. I don't have the candor and the ease that you seem to; I often feel repetitive or forced, and I feel not as authentic as you all. I don't feel productive the way I long to. I am easily distracted. I waste time. I want to show you something worth showing you! Which makes it easiest to show you nothing at all.
Does it get easier over time? Do you come to find that you can sit down and let your fingers type and not worry about what you might say, or why, and not re-read it a thousand times wondering if it sounds corny and canned to everyone else as it does to you? Do you stop worrying about your run-on sentences? I like a good run-on sentence every now and then, but. It is so easy to feel inauthentic.
I don't mean to sound negative, if I do. I'm more inquisitive about this, honestly. I came home from work early, I was feeling badly, but felt so confident in what I could do. I would blog, I would finish binding that quilt, I would make a huge healthy dinner, etc. What I did instead was read more saddening news articles, get zero creative work done, buy a notebook I don't need and can't really afford, and yes, make a huge dinner but completely minus that healthy part. Homemade focaccia and pasta? Why yes, please. Ah, failure, we meet again.
But the point of this post was something else entirely. The point of this post was to tell you that in the midst of this speed demon summer, this outrageously fast suddenly-mid-July summer, something big happened. After finally selling that couch, and thanks completely to my persevering husband (and not at all to me), it happened. It's real. It's here, in my home.
I never had a studio in my home before. (Granted, I used to work primarily with materials that can't really be brought home, but that is a story for another time.) Look at all that floor space. Look at that beautiful flat file. Look at that sewing machine just begging to be used.
It's gorgeous. And already it is completely covered in mess and no longer looks like that blown-out photo. But I am so happy about it. And I wanted to share it with you. Lest this photo be deceiving, our apartment is indeed very small. But we've done some rather unconvential rearrangements and frankly, I think it's perfect for us. And now I have no excuse, right? I must always be working on my work. I know you are. So thank you. You keep me accountable.